


Fires of Destruction

by imachar



Series: The Weight of a Man [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Kelvin is gone, and Pike and Boyce find themselves caught up in the crisis and in need of a little stress relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fires of Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the inestimable Zauzat, as always.
> 
> My head-canon Josh Pike is Sam Elliott, just for reference...

After two months in command Christopher Pike is beginning to discover that for all the fulfilled promise of having a ship of his own, there are things that he really hates, and one of them is the insistent sound of a comm alert in the early hours of gamma shift. He has settled into the habit of grabbing a coffee in the mess right before midnight when the shift changes, so he can spend a little time with the gamma shift command crew and then finish up the day’s administrative bullshit before crashing around 01:00. So when the comm chimes and he snaps awake to find that it’s 02:23 he swears and rolls off the bunk, flinching as his bare feet hit the slightly rough industrial carpeting of the deck. There’s a black undershirt on the end of the bunk and he grabs it, grateful once again that he’s in the habit of taking a quick shower before bed; if he’s being woken at this time in the morning it’s going to be a long time before he sees his bunk again. 

It’s a Captain’s eyes-only priority-one message from Command and as Chris voices his authorization he feels the familiar surge of adrenaline flush up through his body. These messages are never good news. As soon as he sees Admiral Zhou’s face he knows that it’s all gone to shit somewhere; probably somewhere fairly nearby if they’re contacting him. The Jericho is a J-class fast sentry ship, not likely to be sent half way across the galaxy for a rescue mission; whatever is going down is close and – judging by the strain on the face of the elderly Admiral – bad.

“Commander, I’m sorry to wake you but I won’t keep you in suspense. At 14:11 San Francisco time, we received a priority-one distress call from the USS Kelvin.” 

Almost all Starships operate on Federation Standard Time, based on the Arago Prime Meridian that was established in the post-WWIII global restructuring and that conveniently runs through the Federation capital. Chris glances at the screen of his second workstation, which has a chronometer with both FST and Starfleet Command local time and comes up with almost three hours previous even as Zhou elaborates further. “We lost contact almost immediately thereafter and when communication was reestablished forty minutes later it was with a shuttle. The ship is gone, destroyed by some unknown vessel that came from Klingon space. There are 803 survivors on their way to Starbase 24 in shuttles. They’ll be evacuated back to Sector One on the Tokugawa, the Hood and the Horatio and we need every ship we can muster to fill the gaps in the patrol routes for a couple of weeks. You, and five other FSSs – the list will be forwarded to you as soon as Command makes a final determination as to who can be spared – need to rendezvous at Starbase 24 and work out a temporary patrol grid that will cover the Klingon border between Epsilon Outposts 7 and 11.”

“Yes, sir.” Even as he’s listening to Zhou, Chris is using his second terminal to work out the Jericho’s ETA at Starbase 24, coming up with eight hours, give or take an hour depending on just how hard he can get his Chief Engineer to push the ship’s old and slightly balky warp drive. “We can be there in a little under eight hours.” He pauses, still not confident enough in command to ask what he really wants to know; the question that’s been on his mind since Zhou mentioned the Kelvin, but the elderly admiral reads Chris’s unease and shakes his head regretfully. 

“I’m sorry, Commander; I can’t tell you anything else, we don’t even have a definitive list of casualties yet.” He pauses for a second and goes on. “When you get to 24 you’ll find Starfleet Intelligence is already there. Don’t ask any questions, just meet with the other commanders, figure out your patrol grid and do your refuel and resupply. Once we have some reliable information about the aggressor vessel we'll contact you directly.” 

“Sir.” Chris nods and rubs a hand through his uncombed hair trying not to think about the friends he has on the lost ship, or about what the presence of SI implies about the fate of the Kelvin. But there isn’t time for much reflection as Zhou’s fingers move across his workstation and moments later Chris hears the chime signaling that the new orders have been officially transmitted to the Jericho.

“Okay, now it’s official, you can get underway.” Zhou is winding down the conversation, clearly distracted by the activity behind him in the Command Center and Chris starts to push himself back from the workstation, already planning what he needs to do next; his first priority is to rouse both his Chief Engineer and his third officer who is functioning as both navigator and Weapons and Security officer. But there is still one operational question that he needs answered, and while the information will probably be in his orders, he’d like to hear it from Zhou himself.

“Sir, who is going to be the designated group commander?” Coordinating the efforts of six fast sentry ships will only be possible if one of their commanders is given operational control of the mission and Chris would like to know who he’s going to have to defer to once he gets to Starbase 24.

For just a moment Zhou grins. “You are, Commander Pike, it’s going to take a little of that tactical genius of yours to make six FSSs effectively cover the patrol grid of a heavy cruiser and two corvettes.”

Chris is momentarily dumbstruck, he’s the youngest captain in the fleet, as well as one of the least experienced and – Zhou’s confidence in his tactual acumen notwithstanding – it’s going to potentially be a challenge to get the other captains to let him take the lead. Zhou pauses and tilts his head, apparently reading Chris’s concern. “You’ll be fine, Chris. You’re good; we know it, you know it and those other five commanders – whoever they end up being – also know it.” 

Chris shrugs, welcoming Zhou’s faith in him, even if he isn’t entirely convinced himself. “Appreciate the confidence, sir. We’ll be on our way as soon as we have a course laid in.”

Zhou’s parting shot isn’t a comforting one. “Be sharp out there Commander, we have no idea what that ship was, where it came from or whether it’s coming back. We don’t want to lose anyone else.”

“Understood, sir.” 

As the screen fades to the familiar deep Federation blue Chris leans back in his chair and takes a moment to ponder his new responsibilities. It’s commonly accepted that Command assigns temporary operational mission commands based on relevant skill sets rather than seniority within rank, but he’s more than a little daunted at the thought of trying to impose his will on five other captains, all of whom almost certainly have more experience than he does. 

Chris appreciates that he is very, very good at what he does, and it’s widely known that he pulled off the highest scores in thirty years when he passed out of Command school eighteen months before. But no matter how good he is it hasn’t stopped the rumours, in some less-than-friendly circles, that his rapid rise through the ranks is a result of his family connections. 

Youngest child of the inimitable, and formidable, Commodore Joshua Pike, currently commanding the Third Defense Group out by the Bassen Rift, Chris has always had to deal with the heightened scrutiny that comes with being the only son of a notorious father, and he’s always resented it just a little. Josh’s tendency towards taciturn faint praise and his exceedingly high expectations – which Chris always felt he wasn’t quite meeting – and Chris’s natural tendency towards thinking outside-the-box and slightly insolent rebellion had, in turn, created a turbulent relationship that was only kept civil by the mitigating efforts of the women in their lives, Chris’s mother and half-sisters constantly acting as mediators to keep them on speaking terms. Still, as he thinks about Josh now, he gains a certain measure of confidence at the thought of exactly what the old man would say in this situation. “Suck it up, boy. You know you’re good enough, now prove it to the rest of us.” And with that he pushes himself back from the workstation and goes in search of his uniform.

Chris is a master of multitasking and he manages to finish getting dressed, suck down almost a liter of coffee and wake the rest of his alpha shift command crew all within five minutes of shutting down the comm channel to Command. From the moment he leaves his cabin it’s almost ninety minutes until Chris gets to have another uninterrupted thought, and it’s only then, when he can sit silently for a moment and stare at the starfield flashing by on the forward viewer, that he allows himself to think about Boyce. 

No matter how unfortunate the circumstances, just the possibility of an encounter with Starbase 24’s CMO gives Chris a little thrill of anticipation. The Jericho has been providing convoy cover for the supply ships servicing the sentry outposts along the Klingon border since he took command in November and, other than a brief R&R stop at Deep Space K-7 when he’d spent the entire time wrangling with the quartermaster over a missing consignment of spare parts for the long distance comm relays, Chris hasn’t come within several thousand kilometers of a living being that’s not under his command in all that time.

That’s another of the drawbacks of command that he hadn’t really anticipated, the long dry-spells when his sex-life is reduced to porn, lube and his hand, and even the remote chance of sex with another sentient being makes him shift uncomfortably in his command chair as his body anticipates the possibility of skin-on-skin contact with a warm, living, responsive body.

****

By the time they dock at Starbase 24 Chris has received comms listing the other FSSs that will be joining him as well as noting ETAs for all of them. The last to arrive will be the Thabazimbi, still another six hours out and, taking the length of all six ships’ refuel and resupply cycles into consideration, Chris figures he has about five hours of downtime before he needs to be back on the Jericho to start preparing to meet with the other commanders. 

He really should spend that time getting some sleep. Instead he heads into the maze of corridors that makes up the residential levels of the Starbase, walking briskly as he reads the section and unit codes on the walls until he finds himself outside unit 7φ31, and before he can think too hard about what he’s doing he swipes a finger across the door chime. He knows Boyce is home, a quick comm to the base sickbay as the Jericho was docking had confirmed that the CMO had gone off shift some two hours before, after a long and hellaciously difficult ten hours of patching up the Kelvin survivors. They are gone now, the last of them evacuated on the Horatio, which had been slipping its tethers just as the Jericho slid into one of the base’s lower mooring bays.

Chris fidgets restlessly as he waits for a response. Any sound from inside Phil’s quarters is drowned out by the low hum of an air-cycler that obviously needs some maintenance and it feels like forever before the door finally slides aside with a quiet hiss of escaping air.

Phil looks like hell, whey-faced and exhausted and clearly just woken, his hair a dark tousled mess, his eyes still glazed with sleep, and for a moment Chris wonders if this was a mistake. They’ve been together twice in seventeen months, that first slightly debauched weekend and then a brief eight hours – seven of which were spent in bed – at Starbase 12 when their paths crossed as Chris was on his way back to Sector One to pick up the Jericho. Realistically he doesn’t know if Phil’s going to appreciate him showing up at the door of his quarters unannounced in the middle of a crisis and there’s more uncertainty in his voice than he’s strictly comfortable with when he finally breaks the silence.

“Hey, you got a few hours to spare?” Chris watches as Phil’s expression slowly transforms from semi-conscious confusion to stunned delight.

“Fuck, are you real?” Phil grabs Chris by the forearm and pulls him into the cabin, slapping the lock panel to shut the door behind him, reassuring Chris with both word and deed that he is most certainly welcome.

“Real as it gets.” Chris lets Phil press him back against the bulkhead and groans at the feel of heat and corded muscle moving against him. It feels so good, the urgent, aching hardness of another body pressing against his, the feel of vibrant, impatient human need, raw and unrestrained as Phil grinds his hip against Chris’s groin. Chris grunts softly at the suddenly heightened sensation and feels the unmistakable rush of blood as his cock thickens and fills.

“Goddamn, you feel good.” Phil’s voice is still rough with sleep but the rest of him is clearly wide awake, both hands in motion, one curling around the back of Chris’s neck to pull him into a fierce, insistent kiss the other deftly working open his fly and sliding in to wrap around the damp heat of his prick. The kiss is long and exceptionally thorough, a slick, wet, hot and deeply carnal demonstration of just how much both of them need the warmth and solidarity of human contact in the midst of the current chaos and uncertainty.

When they finally come up for air Chris is surprised as Phil leans in and buries his face in the curve of his neck, wrapping himself around Chris’s powerful frame as if he needs comfort as much as sex. Allowing himself to relax into the embrace, Chris rests against the bulkhead and returns the full-body contact, curling his fingers into the heavy silk of Phil’s hair and leaning close, his voice a whisper against Phil’s ear as he asks. 

“What do you need?”

It’s the first time Chris can consciously remember ever asking a partner what they need from him, but he can feel Phil shaking with strain and understands that he has the capacity and the desire to ease the tension for just a while. For a long moment Phil doesn’t answer, snugged tight up against Chris’s body as if he’s soaking up heat and strength, although his hand is still wrapped proprietorially around Chris’s cock, indicating that sex is on the cards just as soon as he’s managed to get his shit together. 

When Phil does finally raise his head Chris is momentarily shaken at the intensity of his gaze, there’s a flash of something unfamiliar in his eyes, something dark and needy and deeply possessive; a brief hint that what Phil really wants might not be something that Chris is willing to deliver – and then it is gone so fast that Chris wonders afterwards if he only imagined it. 

With a visible shiver, Phil takes a deep breath and lowers his head for a moment and when he looks up again there nothing but honest desire written in his face, and he molds his palm a little more firmly around the cock that is pulsing with every beat of Chris’s heart. “I need you to fuck me until I can’t remember my own fucking name.”

His cock twitches against Phil’s palm and Chris shudders, his voice low and rough as he whispers.

“I can do that.” 

Chris suspects that, in lieu of whatever Phil is not asking for, he wants to be nailed to the mattress, and he’s good with that – he has no problem whatsoever with vigorous fucking – but it’s going to be on his terms and he shifts his weight, twisting so that Phil is now the one pressed against the bulkhead. 

It’s clear that Phil takes the change in position as a challenge and he pushes one thigh between Chris’s legs, pressing up against his groin. “Can you? Can you fuck me hard; make me _feel_ ; make me hurt so much I can’t think any more? Can you give me what I need?” His tone is dark and aggressive and Chris pushes back, capturing both of Phil’s wandering hands in one of his own and lifting them to pin him against the cool plassteel at his back and his own voice is low and threatening as he answers.

“I could fuck you unconscious if I wanted to. I could fuck you raw, make you scream, make you beg for me to stop.” Chris finds it instructive, if not entirely surprising, that threatening Phil with pain does nothing for his own arousal, and careful observation suggests that it’s not doing anything for Phil either, despite his declared desire to be so abused. 

Chris pushes one last time. “I could fuck you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk for a fucking week. But…” and he stares down the challenge in Phil’s eyes, the familiar bright cobalt gone to deep slate blue, hinting at something profoundly self-destructive behind the assertive belligerence in Phil’s voice. “…that’s not what you really want, and since you won’t tell me what you really want we’re going to do this my way.”

Phil might have ten years on Chris, and Chris might have been quite willing to defer to Phil’s latent authority in their previous encounters, but he’s a fucking Starfleet captain, elevated to command at an unprecedentedly young age, and he is more than capable of asserting himself when he needs to. He’s also possessed of a surprising degree of emotional intelligence for his age and he understands that, in the midst of this crisis, Phil is trying to use the intensity of rough sex to clear his mind. But he’s also pretty damn sure that pain is Phil’s fallback position – his plan-B when he can’t get what he really needs – and Chris wants no part of it. 

“I mean it, Phil. We do this my way or not at all. I’ll fuck you, when I’m ready. Hell, I’ll give you the fucking of a lifetime but you only get my cock when I say so, only when you’re whimpering and aching and I’ve turned you inside out with pleasure.” Chris is holding Phil’s gaze, ignoring the nervous flutter in his stomach as Phil stares evenly back at him with no hint that he has any interest in what Chris is offering, as Chris goes on, “Only then, when you’re begging for my cock, then I’ll fuck you open and shove it deep and fuck you until we both come.”

For a moment there is a stand-off, Chris watches the curl in Phil’s lip, waits for the cutting sarcasm that will end this and send him out into the cold again, and then Phil relaxes against the bulkhead, the tension leaching out of him as he drops his head and lets himself rest against the broad heat of Chris’s chest.

“Okay, okay.” his voice bleeds impatience, “We’ll do it your way, just _fuck_ me.” There’s an edge of desperation threaded through the quiet capitulation and Chris makes a conscious decision to ignore it, confident that even if he can’t give Phil want he wants, he can give him what he needs.

“It’s been a rough day, Phil. Just let me make you feel good.” Chris curves his hand along the rough burn of stubble at Phil’s throat and applies just the slightest pressure with his thumb in the hollow at the hinge of his jaw, forcing his head up so Chris can kiss him, long, soft, deep and lush, his tongue stroking in to soothe and arouse in equal measure and he feels the last of Phil’s resistance dissipate as he melts into the kiss. 

The bed is a disordered mess of tangled sheets and bunched pillows and Chris shoves Phil backwards onto it before managing to simultaneously pull off his shirts and toe off his boots. Once his head is free of the undershirt he pauses and raises an eyebrow at the sight of Phil, who has already rolled onto his stomach and pulled a pillow down under his hips – his ass a perfect, firm pale curve of flesh in the dimly lit bedroom. 

“Over.” Chris has no intention of fucking Phil anytime soon and as he watches Phil shift reluctantly onto his back he bites back a brief flash of irritation. Phil is only half-hard, the thick curve of his shaft lying on his thigh, nowhere close to aroused enough for the kind of hard ride that he’s demanding from Chris and as he crawls up the bed, pressing between the strong, lightly-furred thighs until his mouth is poised directly over Phil’s cock, Chris lays out, in exquisitely precise detail, exactly what he’s got planned.

“No fucking yet, not by a long-damn-shot.” He flicks his tongue against the base of Phil’s shaft, gratified when he feels the immediate twitch of response. “First I want to suck you off, feel you get hard in my mouth – taste you as you start leaking.” He flicks again, this time up the shaft and along the edge of the corona, fascinated as always by the contours of a circumcised cock, the glans so exposed and vulnerable and for a moment Chris slides his mouth over it, smiling around the expanding girth as Phil groans and hitches his hips to shove his cock a little deeper. Chris feels the head slide against his palate, uses his tongue to massage the underside and then pulls off with a slow, wet suckle.

“Then when you can’t stand it anymore I’m going to open you with my tongue, get you so slick and wet and loose that I can slide my fingers all the way in and then go back to sucking your cock while I stretch you, and stroke you and finger-fuck you until you’re begging for my cock.” As he’s talking Chris is shoving Phil’s thighs up and back, draping the long legs over his shoulders as he gets comfortable, leaning on his elbows with his head poised over Phil’s abdomen, his breath stirring the dark wiry curls that spread out from the narrow trail below his navel to the thick mass that covers his scrotum. 

“Stop talking and just do it, you fucking cock-tease.” There’s a breathless quality to Phil’s voice now and a whole different kind of desperation that makes Chris chuckle softly and eases the sense that Phil is pissed at him for taking charge. 

“Patience.” He uses his tongue to massage the sensitive, pliant flesh along the now much firmer shaft and then, when he has Phil groaning and shuddering, body twitching with each touch, he relents and takes Phil’s cock deep to the back of his throat. He suckles around the length, feeling the thrum of Phil’s pulse as he swallows once, and then sets up a slow cock-screwing slide with his mouth – up and down the shaft – pausing each time he reaches the glans to play his tongue over the smooth, firm flesh, dipping it into the tiny slit to seek out Phil’s taste as the pre-come begins to leak in thick, slow, alkali-bitter droplets. The touch of Phil’s hands in his hair makes Chris pause for a moment as long fingers grip tightly into the thick curls, and then Phil relaxes and strokes more gently, and Chris lets himself be guided, lets Phil hold him in place as he fucks his mouth in long, deep strokes. 

It takes a while but eventually he can tell Phil’s getting close by the way his breath begins to hitch and his hips jerk convulsively every time Chris swallows on a particularly deep thrust, and he pulls up and off, jaw aching a little – it’s been a while since he’s had any practice giving head – forearm banded across the taut abdomen as Phil groans and arches up at the loss of contact. 

“Uh-uh, not yet, not done yet.” Chris sinks his mouth onto an area of soft, smooth skin just above Phil’s hip and suckles a deep bruise into the warm flesh before pushing himself up on his elbows. “Roll over.” And there is such wicked promise in his voice that Phil shudders and Chris grins at the flash of raw need that flares in Phil’s eyes as he twists and settles himself on his forearms, thighs spread wide enough to give Chris ample room to work. 

With a hand on each firm cheek to hold Phil open, thumbs pressing gently on either side of the tense ring of muscle that flexes just a fraction against the pressure, Chris trails his tongue from the dimple at the base of Phil’s spine to the shallow indent of his asshole. Just the briefest touch at first, a tease of wet, slippery heat, before he slides even lower and uses long, slow swipes of his tongue on the hot, soft flesh of his sac. Phil whines and shifts impatiently, and Chris nips at the inside of one thigh.

“Patience, I’ll get there.”

“Not fucking fast enough.” Phil has his head to the side, and Chris pushes himself up and reaches up for a moment, resting his hand on Phil’s head, preventing him from turning his face back into the pillow.

“Stay just like that, I want to hear how good I am at this.”

“Narcissist.” Despite the stress and the need and the almost overwhelming impatience in Phil’s voice, there’s humour there too, suggesting that whatever Chris is doing, he’s doing it right and he lays another suckling bite on the tender skin at the top of one thigh, just where it merges with the curve of Phil’s ass. 

He laughs. “Yeah, well, this narcissist is about to tongue-fuck you until your brain melts, so just be grateful and make a lot of noise so I know I’m doing it right.”

Phil signals his capitulation by drawing his knees up a little higher, and without any further warning Chris leans in and slides his tongue against the twitching muscle, circling the rim of it again and again, and then pressing hard on the opening as Phil whines and shivers, until the sphincter yields and Chris can flick just the tip of his tongue inside. He uses his thumbs to hold Phil open as he slides his tongue deeper, slicking just the entrance of the smooth, hot channel, then pulling out to circle the loosening hole again and again, all the time soaking up the litany of wanton, incoherent, filthy sounds that are pouring out of Phil’s mouth. 

“Fuck, deeper. Jesus…Chris…fuck…good…so fucking good…fuck more…ohhh _yes_ ”

He goes as deep as he can, long, wet strokes that make Phil keen with need, and when the begging becomes too much for both of them he adds a spit-slicked finger, pressing deep in a slow slide and then twisting to find the firm swell of Phil’s prostate. Two fingers, strong enough to stretch the muscle, make it possible for Chris to slide his tongue even deeper, the motion now fucking rather than licking and it doesn't take long for his own need to become urgent. 

He can feel the damp spot on the sheet where his cock is leaking freely and his hips are moving in a slow circle as he humps the mattress and he knows that if he doesn’t fuck Phil soon he’s going to come all over the bed and that won’t do anybody any damn good. For a moment he worries about the lack of lube, Phil is much too far gone to locate it, and Chris has no intention of stopping what he’s doing long enough to go searching through Phil’s bunk storage, and then he dismisses the concern. Lube might be slicker than spit, but Phil is so wet from Chris’s tongue and so loose from the stretch of his fingers that Chris is going to go into him like a hot knife through butter.

He leaves one last bite on the curve of Phil’s ass before he pulls back and manhandles Phil onto his back, sliding in close and lifting the long legs over his shoulders. Phil is shuddering, both hands pressed against the bulkhead for leverage as he allows his head to fall back against the pillow and groans one last coherent plea. “Fuck me, _now_.” and Chris lines himself up and slides home in one long, slow, stretching shove. 

Chris sets a punishingly aggressive pace – egged on by Phil who is pushing back against him – heedless of the rough edge of pain that is darting along his nerves and aware that the burn must be so much more intense for Phil, hearing the whimpering catch of breath every time he slams his hips forward and his cock slides in to the hilt. But it’s so fucking good, hard and fast and laced through with notes of unease and desperation and it lasts far longer than Chris expects given how long it’s been since he’s fucked anything other than his fist. But he wants to give Phil what he needs, the mind-wiping pleasure of a hard, rough fuck and he’s strong enough to keep powering into him over and over again, even when the muscles of his thighs start burning with the strain. And finally, when he knows he’s getting close, he spits into his palm and wraps his hand tight around Phil’s cock, setting up a fast, competent rhythm, collecting pre-come on each upstroke and adding it to the lubrication of sweat and spit until he can match the speed and timing of his own thrusts.

And then they’re both shaking and howling as they come, Phil first, the warm spatters of semen coating Chris’s stomach even as Phil’s ass clenches around Chris’s cock in sweet, tight spasms that send him careening into the void. 

When he regains some measure of consciousness Chris finds himself sprawled on top of Phil, who is inhaling slow, deep breaths and whispering softly. “Fuck, that was what I needed. Unbelievably fucking good. Just fucking incredible.” 

****

When Chris gets back from the shower – there was no way he wasn’t going to take advantage of the real water showers on a Starbase, even if he hadn’t had to wash off the crust of drying come on his belly – Phil is spread out on his back, arms crossed behind his head and he smiles, contrite and just a little diffident.

“I was kind of an asshole for a while there, I’m sorry.”

Chris shrugs and slides up onto the bed, arranging himself so that he’s draped comfortably across Phil’s body. “ ‘S’okay. It’s kind of a fucked up day for everyone.” He eyes Phil speculatively. “You can’t talk about what went down on the Kelvin, can you?”

Phil shakes his head. “Sorry, SI slapped a need-to-know order on everyone who came in contact with the survivors, you’re going to have to wait to hear something from the brass.” He moves one arm and strokes his fingers down the side of Chris’s freshly-shaven cheek.

“Figured as much.” Chris sighs and rearranges himself so he’s lying almost directly on top of Phil, the touch of Phil’s fingers on his face reminding him that he’s curious about the unanticipated change in Phil’s appearance since their last meeting. 

Leaning on Phil’s chest, his chin resting on crossed hands, Chris eyes the new facial hair with a little suspicion.

“I’m not sure about that mustache.” He reaches out and brushes it lightly with a fingertip – it’s surprisingly soft and frames Phil’s narrow upper lip beautifully.

Phil just laughs and strokes a gentle hand through Chris’ hair “You will be.” He grabs the hand that is now brushing fingertips lightly across his lips, and holds it so he can suck one of those long fingers into his mouth.

Chris feels the shiver of renewed desire spark up his spine as Phil releases the finger and brushes the skin of his palm with his upper lip, the sensation of warm breath and soft bristle making his cock twitch with anticipation.

“I think you need to convince me.” Chris rolls onto his back in an invitation that would have been obvious even if he wasn’t giving his stiffening cock a long, slow stroke to make his point clear and Phil just laughs and wriggles down the bed. “One mustache-assisted blowjob coming up.”

It’s only after Phil has sucked him to completion, and Chris is sprawled, panting and sweating, in a boneless heap across the bed, his brain still largely off-line that he feels Phil take his hand again and stroke the palm with the soft brush of hair.

“Convinced now?”

“I’ll think about it.” Chris is just being difficult, the sensation of the mustache – rough, silky, ticklish all at once – on his skin had been gloriously delicious, but it still makes him a little uncomfortable and he knows exactly why. The question is whether he’s going to have to admit it to Phil, or whether this Starfleet veteran of fifteen years is going to be able to figure it out for himself.

The slow, slightly evil, chuckle that rolls up from Phil’s chest indicates that Chris is busted and he sighs dramatically. “Okay, just fucking say it, I know you’re thinking it.”

“What?” Phil laughs and leans up to gently brush the damp hair back from Chris’s forehead. “Does it remind you of someone?”

“You know it does, you fucking asshole. You’ve just sucked my dick dry and when I look at you all I can think about is my Dad.”

Phil’s still laughing, leaning in to kiss Chris sweetly before he asks. “Hmmm, the illustrious Commodore Joshua Pike, I hope I don’t remind you of him in any other way.”

Chris has to think about that for a moment and when he does he has to concede that there are some fairly major similarities between Phil and his father, at least when Josh was younger.

Tall, dark and rangy, both of them well-furred and well-muscled, the overriding personality differences – Phil’s laid-back, low-key reticence set against Josh’s bull-headed extroversion – mean that he hasn’t really thought about the physical similarities until the mustache appeared. Now he’s forced to acknowledge that no matter how tense and stressed his relationship with Josh has been over the past decade, there must be some deeply – very deeply – buried core of affection and respect for his father if he’s not immediately turned-off by someone who bears a more than passing resemblance to his younger self. But he’s not ready for that conversation with Phil, not yet, perhaps not ever. So he just sighs and grins ruefully.

“No, it’s just the mustache, and I’ll get over it, really I will. It’s just going to take me a while.” He curves his hand around Phil’s nape and pulls him close, deliberately brushing his lips across the dark curve of short, thick hair, letting himself revel in the feel of it against his mouth before he swipes his tongue against Phil’s lips in a shameless plea for entry and they unwind into a long, relaxed embrace. When it’s over Chris curls himself around a pillow, suddenly aware of how exhausted he is, and feels Phil lean over him to set an alarm.

“Sleep – just for a while. We both need it – I’ll wake you in time for another round before you have to go.”

_fin_


End file.
